Again
by somaticjester
Summary: It was always the same: Andrew, on the midst of his treatments, would regress, rendering him an impossible case. But Lester? He didn't believe that. Because deep down, he knew Andrew was someone worth saving time and time again.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Shutter Island. All rights regarding its ownership belongs to its creator, Dennis Lehane.

**Title: **AGAIN

**Genre: **Drama/Hurt/Comfort

**Rated: M **for suggestive blood, violence, and language (not really that disturbing but still imagination can take flight)

**Synopsis: **It was always the same: Andrew, on the midst of his treatments, would regress, rendering him an impossible case. But Lester? He didn't believe that. Because deep down, he knew Andrew was someone worth saving time and time again.

* * *

**A G A I N **

Time to him became more of a fragmented memory and it wasn't that hard to notice. In fact, Dr. Lester Sheehan could see his detached sense of reality clearly in his eyes, dimmed and sagged and at most times unresponsive, etched all over were the remains of a grim aftermath.

"Again, Andrew. Focus." Lester was sitting on the other end of a table with him, his gaze squarely matching his. They were inside a small green room, dimly-lit with an atmosphere of Lysol. There were no windows; nothing around worth interesting to look at but a two-way mirror plastered off to their right in which Andrew would glance sporadically as if he could see a group of bystanders watching him, examining him. A deputy officer stood at the end of the door with his hands behind his back. His face was unchanging, almost mechanical. A sentinel of daunting vigilance. Andrew didn't need so much as to flinch. He was used to this kind of interrogation. He had always been. He clasped his hands calmly on top of his lap, both thumbs idly pressing in rhythmic patterns with each other, his wrists shackled in cold steel. For the past hour, their conversations were spared from the occasional banters and quips. Teddy wasn't around, and neither was Chuck. Here was a man, a doctor in pursuit of his profession. And a patient, unyielding in his ways, deemed by others as the dragon of Ward C.

The air around them hung thick and stale. Tension was hardly dispersing.

"I'm not doing this," Andrew repeated. His tone was calm but reeling with antagonism. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. Now tell me. What do you see?" His hands held a small card, all black-and-white, a surreal image of a man and a woman sketched in it. Andrew half-heartedly stared at it. He sucked his breath, resisting the urge to spit. "A couple," he said at last.

Lester nodded his response. It was a progress. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Kinda like a game of storytelling."

A pause. Finally, he eased out a smile, embarrassed. "Seriously, doc, who invented this junk?"

"Beats me."

"Well, whoever did it better come up with something else more challenging. A five-year old can do this stuff."

He laughed at that and felt his posture relaxing a bit. If, by chance, he happened to be Chuck at this very instant then he'd be more willing to ditch the mission and ask for a game of poker and smokes. But there were things that needed to be done here. Business to take care of. He cleared his throat, shoved his hesitations aside, and resumed. "Now what can you make out of it?"

"Make out of what?"

"What do you think is happening?"

He could see a woman standing next to a door, one hand on the knob, the other hand buried in her face. Her shoulders were slumped. On her right was a man whose body lay still on top of a bed, one hand drooping as he slept. Or was he really sleeping? Andrew couldn't tell. The man's face was shadowed and vague. Hell, almost everything in the picture was.

"She's crying," he began. "She's going out of the room to calm herself." A long pause. "She's disappointed."

"Why?"

Andrew licked his lips. His eyes momentarily losing contact at the picture. "It's because of her husband."

Lester kept quiet, listening.

"He just came home," he pressed on. "Exhausted from the night's work. From the hang-over. They argued for a while but in the end she lost."

"How long did it take?"

"Not long. It was over too soon."

"What do you think the husband feels?"

"Pain. Anger. Guilt, perhaps." Andrew lowered his head and cursed to himself. Damn it. Why couldn't he stop his thumbs from twitching so much? "He—he needs to calm himself so he sleeps. He dreams."

"What is he dreaming?"

No response.

"Tell me. What is he dreaming, An—"

"Christ. Stop it. I dunno."

"You can do it, Andrew. It's your story."

"No, no, it's not."

"You can finish this. You have to trust me."

"This is a fucking waste of time!"

"Andrew, please, listen—"

"My name is _not_ Andrew!"

The words came out abrupt and gruff, exploding with viciousness that hearing it immediately brought a stab in Lester's chest, silencing him. It was no longer Andrew's voice. It was something elemental and distressing. Teddy? Yes, probably Teddy. Andrew couldn't bear anymore to hear himself relieved the memories, the nightmares. There was too much pain. Too much anguish. So much so that, god, it hurts! His instincts kicked in and his mind responded to resort for a swift relief: Regression. And just like that, the "Teddy" persona has wrestled itself over his traumatized flesh, resurfacing on cue. All this done in a fraction of a second. Lester could only marvel at the absolute madness of what the human mind is capable of.

"I had enough of this interrogation," Teddy retorted. "Where's my partner, doc? Where is he?"

Lester felt a lump in his throat. He wasn't expecting this. The shock came out worse than expected that Andrew, no, _Teddy _has lost grasp of time and reality. He couldn't recognize him anymore, couldn't remember him at all. His partner, Chuck, now remained a faceless, floating figure within the depths of his consciousness. This wasn't good. Not good at all. The deputy was signaling him to halt the proceedings.

_No. Keep going, _he said to himself. _I can do this. _The least he could do was to assuage his doubts. "He—he's outside. But don't worry, he's fine. Safe."

Teddy was unconvinced. "What have you done with him?"

_Keep going. Keep going. God, please, no. Why now? Andrew, c'mon, you can fight this. _"Listen, Andrew—"

"Teddy."

"—you and I need to continue this. I need to know what—"

"I said I had enough of this shit!" His voice was striking with venom. "I know what's going on around here. You and your insane experiments and brainwashing techniques. You may have me in your chains, doc. But guess what? You can't contain me. And I'm not giving up that easily."

"This isn't interrogation. It never is," Lester admitted. "This is a test. An assessment for your psychological profile. I need it done so I can help you, save you, do you understand?"

His tone, calm to the last, showed no hints of fear or strain. He was strictly professional, trained to zero in of feelings, but looking at this man—this _once_ civilized man, a father in particular, who'd probably kissed his wife so many times, hugged his kids so many times more, enjoyed dinner with them, took them out for a stroll—things he wished he have or could've done—was enough for the wall barricading his emotions to crumble.

Deep inside, he felt himself bleeding.

"The only thing worth saving here is you and this godforsaken island."

"Andrew, please."

"Stop calling me Andrew, you stupid fuck!"

This was the signal. The deputy stepped in, his brusquely body looming over Teddy. His feral eyes were focused with quiet intensity, claiming domination with his rough hands tightly gripped on the baton.

The predator was ready to detain its prey.

Or so that's what he thinks it is.

The deputy reached out his hand and Teddy, sensing he was just inches away from proximity, stood up, aimed his shackled fists on the throat, and slammed it so hard he'd swore he heard something cracked from the inside. The deputy backed away, gasping for air, his face flushed white with shock. Lester stood and screamed his name. Screamed at him to stop—Christ, everything was happening too fast! Teddy's pulse was quickening, his breath growing short. Voices outside were panicking and shouting. But Teddy didn't care. He sauntered towards the deputy, eyes devoid of emotions. His fists rose, ready to strike on the temple, nostrils flaring to anticipate the smell of blood.

_Goddammit, Andrew! _Lester lunged forward, grabbing him by his arms, pulling him away. Reflexes kicked in and Teddy—relying on his primitive impetus of fight-or-flight—decided to fight back. A voice (or was it voices?) was ringing inside his head now, begging him to stop. But, no, he was too distracted to pay attention to it. He struggled out of Lester's grasp—quite an easy task for a soldier his age—and took the slightest opportunity of the doctor's arms wearing down by striking a blow on his chest. Lester, always two steps ahead, tried to evade it but miscalculated in the last milliseconds, striking him under the crook of his nose instead.

Lester fumbled to the ground, stunned. Teddy looked at him, really looked at him, and the sight of blood made him stop. His hands trembled. His knees grew weak and watery as shards of his memory slowly pieced themselves together one-by-one.

_No, this can't be…_

The name was now registering clear in his head.

_What have I done?_

He had hurt him.

_Chuck. _

The door yanked open as Dr. John Cawley together with his colleague, Dr. Jeremiah Naehring, rushed inside the room. Behind them were several orderlies and staffs whose faces barely flashed any relevance in Teddy's memory; nameless ghosts in uniforms who were seldom noticed until they were needed. Dr. Cawley was calm, in control, as he walked past Teddy. He did not bother to meet his eyes. Dr. Naehring, on the other hand, regarded him for a moment with a gaze that seemed to bore straight into his skull. A mock of pleasure and disgust that made Teddy wanting to peel the flesh out of him.

"Are you okay?" Lester couldn't do so much but nod. Immediately, Dr. Cawley reached out and helped him up to his feet. Lester felt pain and sore wringing all over his face as he was being escorted out of the room. His vision was momentarily blurred but he could trace faint noises coming from the staffs and orderlies. The sounds, he discerned, were far from being gentle.

And Teddy?

Teddy was quiet.

* * *

The cafeteria was empty but Lester welcomed its solitude with open arms. He dismissed dinner and spent his time alone in the sink, washing his worn-down face, muscles taut and swollen, with cold water. He stood with his head bowed, eyes closed in deep rumination as he tried to visualize the scenes of his recent endeavor, rewinding and replaying it like a film.

He imagined himself as a remote critic, pointing out the things that went wrong, the things that shouldn't have went wrong, and the things that needed to be done right next time.

He imagined Andrew as a sane man, off to work for his family, and what life it could've been if he met him on the busy port of Seattle instead of Aschecliffe.

When at last the pain has dulled and the screams had quieted, he shut off the faucet. He straightened up and opened his eyes, but he did not move. He evaluated his condition, checking for aches that still lingered beneath his skin.

"Dammit." He cursed under his breath as he tasted blood, warm and metallic, inside his mouth. He grabbed a glass, filled it, and let the water slid the cloying crimson down his gullet. He finished it in record time.

"Lester."

A familiar voice penetrated his ears. He turned around and saw a man in a sharp flannel suit standing on the doorway. It was Cawley.

"I'm sorry but he's emotionally unavailable right now. If you like, you can talk to Chuck. I'm sure he'll be happy to entertain you."

Cawley couldn't help but grin. "Always the comic relief, are you?" He walked towards him. A concern look was now painted all over his face. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," he said, rubbing his nose. The sting still throbbed. "The guard? What 'bout him?"

Cawley dropped his pipe, exhaling a waft of smoke. "He's in the infirmary," his voice was grim. "The… medics are calling for an operation. Suffering from internal blood clot, they say. His trachea is damaged."

Lester was silent as he tried to 'swallow' Dr. Cawley's report. He couldn't.

"Don't worry. He'll be alright," Cawley patted his shoulders in bleak assurance. "I have faith in my people. I trust them they'll have a save."

Yet the words couldn't soothe the guilt already etched in his chest.

_It wasn't Andrew's misdoing but mine. I should've stopped when the situation was still under control but I was too busy trying to salvage my own work. My own pride. I'm responsible for this poor soul's tragedy. _

"I need to go, John," he said, mentally blocking the tears welling up unwanted in his eyes. "I'll see what I can do to help the medics."

"That's… quite unlikely."

Lester stopped from his tracks. He turned.

"I didn't come here to talk about the accident. I came here to talk about Andrew."

He didn't like the way the shrink delivered his speech. "W-what'd you mean?"

"Lester…" Cawley paused, struggling to phrase his words as carefully as possible. "Ever since you took over this case, I've been greatly concerned for your well-being. I really am. And watching you a while ago made me realize something that maybe he's just too much for you to handle."

"Andrew was just tensed, John. But I don't blame him. It was his first time encountering a _TAT _and I made a big mistake of pushing him further on the edge. I should've considered his situation and held back. But don't worry, I can still manage him."

"That's not the point," Cawley puffed another smoke. "You see, Andrew's progress for recovery has been, sadly, limited. Remember Axelrod? He was the first to handle the case but gave up no more than a month because of Andrew's proclivity for danger and violence. I've been thinking that perhaps you should do the same thing as well."

Lester stiffened in disbelief. Him? Give up? What the hell was Cawley smoking these days? He fought to control a sudden surge of temper and said evenly, "John, you know I can't do that. He's my primary patient—"

"—and all the more raises the risks for you being in harm's way, yes? Listen, I care for the man too, but lately he's becoming more and more difficult to manage. His fantasies are becoming stronger, grander. I fear the day when he'll start killing everyone just to satisfy his fucked-up delusions," he let out a tired sigh. "What you have to remember, Lester, is that reality can sometimes be cruel but we have to accept it as it is. We're not gods. We're just humans capable of committing rational errors and letting go of the things impossible."

The room fell silent. No one dared to speak as though just the act of being the first one to open his mouth was a sign of surrender. And eventually, Lester did. But Cawley was more than surprised to see him smile.

"You lost me, John," he said, unruffled. "I don't know what you're talking about anymore."

"Jesus. He hurt you. Not just now, but during your previous attempts as well. You have your fair share of scars already that I can't bear to see you suffer anymore."

"Well, tough luck for you then. I'm not giving up on him."

Cawley rubbed the sweat trickling down his forehead, thinking. "Why do you keep on doing this? Tell me. What is your reason?"

Lester looked at him and saw how his dog-tired eyes begged for a logical explanation. At this point, he felt like a school kid caught in the middle of a heated recital with a teacher who wouldn't stop probing until the right answer was declared. He wanted to react, to say the words loud and clear to his face: _Will you ever shut the fuck up and stop bugging me? _ He could do it. It was almost on the tip of his tongue.

But he simply shook his head and spoke flat and simple: "I don't know."

"But you must have a reason, Lester. Has to be. Because everything is done for a reason."

"On the contrary, do you need a reason to help someone?"

He walked away leaving Cawley behind. He didn't reply anymore.

* * *

It was already late at night when he visited the 67th cell of Ward C. An orderly had accompanied him along the walkway—clearly not the type of guy who'd give a damn in hearing random conversations so they spent their time together striding in ill silence. Now standing in front of the steel cage, the orderly reached for his brass pocket keys and quickly looked for the right match on the lock. His expression was all grouchy and stiff as he unbolted the door.

He entered the cell and gave the orderly a curt nod, signaling him to leave. The orderly conceded the request, locking him in together with the occupant. Moonlight poured through the barred window, penetrating the darkness inside the cell. The air, a voiceless hum. Looking around, he saw nothing that distinguished the place from the other cells he had passed—no photographs, no personal possessions; just a sleeping platform, a mattress, a sink, and that's it—yet there was this strange aura of malevolence that seemed to contaminate around their minimal space, lurking within the shadows, waiting.

Luckily, he was used to it.

"Jeez. So much for their warm hospitality, don't you agree?"

"They got you too, huh?"

"Yeah, boss. Guess I'm not really that good in playin' hide-n-seek with them."

Teddy was sitting on the cot, his face deadbeat and pale, as he observed Chuck patting his trouser pockets and took out his pack of _Luckies. _He offered a stick to which Teddy graciously accepted. Then, almost automatically, he lit Teddy's cigarette before considering his own.

"What happened to your nose?" He asked with honest curiosity. He took another huff, savoring the taste of warm nicotine as it circulated its way out from his nose and throat, calming him as it did every single time. "Seriously, you look like goddamned Rudolph."

Chuck could smell familiar chemicals in his breath.

"I, ah, got into a little fight a while ago," he replied, his cheeks turning red. "But I'm okay now. Trust me. This won't take long to heal. Besides, shit happens. We just got to get used to it."

Teddy smiled at that. "Yeah… I guess you're right."

"Suppose we could try again tomorrow?"

"The plan?"

"I'm with you, boss."

Teddy looked at Chuck and smiled. He never felt more contented.

* * *

**a/n: **You made it! Thanks so much for reading. I really enjoyed writing this stuff down because I get to explore a bit of Andrew/Lester (or Teddy/Chuck) friendship side, not to mention Dr. Cawley being the antagonist in this story (seriously, what was I thinking?). Anyway, if you got a comment then feel free to write. Reviews are much appreciated.


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